Writhe
by StrawberriesAndCinnamonJAM
Summary: We are the freaks, the psychos. And we don't want, or deserve, to live. AU, Dark Fic, Ichigo/Rukia, One-shot. Now has a prequel titled 'Ragged'.


**A/N: This is a dark fic. If your looking for happy endings your in the wrong place. O.O**

**Warning: Double Suicide**

_**THE WHOLE STORY IS IN RUKIAS POV**_

**Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach**

* * *

><p>Unbalanced is what they call you.<p>

Mentally unbalanced.

It's their gentle way of telling you that your fuckin' insane. Not, of course, that they ever care to word it that way.

Instead, they dance tiptoes around you as if you're made of glass. You have a problem, they say to you. You can fix it. We can fix it.

You can only roll your eyes at their lies. You know, and they know, that there is no way back. There is no healing, no matter where you are, no matter whom you're with.

Because obviously, you're here because you _can't_ fix yourself. They never realize that when they tell you everything's going to be alright, that your going to come out of here a whole new person, that their just spewing lies; a bunch of crap that doesn't relate to you in anyway.

So, in return, you spew a bunch of emotional crap back.

Only so that you can turn away and get the hell out. So you can crack a smile, one that's threatens to pull apart and rip the muscles of your jaw, and then drop it the minute you turn around.

They can go ahead and make up all these fancy words for what you are. They can go ahead and list a whole bunch of physiological terms that pertain to you, but you know what you are.

You're a freak, a psycho.

And you don't want, or deserve, to live.

* * *

><p>You look out the window everyday. But you see nothing. To you, the world is grey and black, for the simple reason that color means nothing.<p>

You don't know what to do with yourself.

This window is no different. A car window, sure. The passing scenery disappearing in the flash of an eye. But its still a window.

You know where you're going. It's painfully obvious. It's hard not to know, when your brother stiffly tells you that going 'to a boarding school where you can heal'. Try a fuckin' mental institute?

The place is going to become your home.

A place with no windows, because windows can easily become a death threat.

You're dropped off, practically thrown out the window, left to register yourself, because it isn't proper for a Kuchiki to enter such a dirty place. You watch his car speed away, and wonder if now would be the time to run for it, to run and run until your feet blister and tear and maybe until you find the edge of a cliff and forget how high it is.

But you don't. Against all instinct and want, you turn yourself to the high metal gates, and the hell beyond.

You walk numbly, and blankly, reminisce of the age-old Zombie.

You don't want to go anywhere, or see anyone.

You don't want to think.

Thinking is painful, and it doesn't help, yet you can't stop yourself from doing so, even if it is nothing but wishful thinking.

It's easier to dig crevasses into fleshy paper with sharp pencils.

To ignore the thoughts that rise unbidden to your head.

All the same, you think.

You think and think and think.

You think about the days when you ran around in sundresses squealing about bunnies and other cutesy things that you would cuddle up with at night.

Remembering the days when you were studious and eager to please, wanting nothing more then to be successful.

The time when everything went from bad to worse, and those beeping machines left scars in your head, burnt images of a bug-eyed corpse with pale skin and stick-like limbs.

And then life became simple.

You, pain, blood and pills.

That was everything, and nothing.

And now, there were no more windows.

* * *

><p>You hate it when people think you're weak.<p>

They think you're pathetic because you're depressed and desperate. They think that you need their help just because they're happier then you are.

They should all go screw themselves.

You don't need their help, and you don't want their help.

Just because you failed at offing yourself and they didn't, just because you woke up in a hospital and they didn't, doesn't make them better then you.

They all stare at you with pity, fear, and a small amount of smugness.

I can understand the fear, they're all soulless, selfish bastards so I can understand the smugness, but I don't get the pity, because it's likely that they're the ones who go back home and joke about the 'emo kids who cut themselves up'.

Well screw them all.

* * *

><p>Sometimes, you get the urge to break the law, because since everything is your fault, you deserve to spend you life in a cell.<p>

Sometimes, you get the urge to die, because you know it isn't hard to find a cliff, or take too many pills.

The fact that you have yet to follow through only makes you hate yourself all the more. How could you not be angry after you tried and tried only to fail? It only means that you didn't quite try enough.

You had to keep on living, going through the motions of life like a wooden doll.

You're the star of your life, of a one and half star movie whose audience isn't even a quarter full.

You feel stares on you, and you look up from your feet to stare into the eyes of a gum-chewing secretary. You know she not quite looking at your face, but at your arms, where the crosses of bracelets mar your skin.

But of course, you understand.

You know how you look, you've seen yourself. Your grey dull skirt, your black blouse. The glazed eyes that just don't give a damn and stray to far to the edge of the road. The hands that either fall to your side in fists or rise to your mouth to chew your fingernails down to stubs.

Your name numbly leaves your lips and woman nods, checking you off on the list

She looks back down at you and begins to list off all the things you are and aren't aloud to do. How no sharp objects are allowed, how all food is to be eaten, how you cannot go to the washroom without an attendant.

How they're taking away all your fuckin' freedom because for some stupid reason they seem to want save something as disgusting as yourself.

You don't understand that and it leads you to believe that they're simply mocking you.

Laughing and snickering behind the pretense of trying to get you a modicum of help.

You nod to everything she says, and then find yourself being led to your room, a place completely moderated by cameras at every living moment. It would be disturbing, if it weren't for the fact that you can't bring yourself to care.

You find it pointless to be here.

No matter how much these people want to bring it upon themselves to save you, its impossible.

Its funny, because you can recall the time in your 'condition', when you were wishing for someone to save you. Too bad all those 'good souls' out there were a little too late.

You've dug yourself too deep to get out, and even if you could, it was still deep enough to not want out.

No, you _definitely _didn't want out.

* * *

><p>The days are dragging by with no meaning.<p>

You cannot sleep, and you cannot remember the last time you did. The bags under your eyes are as deep and as wide as canyons but you don't care at all.

The fingers are itching for something to drag across the surface, to scratch in deep bloody furrows, but there isn't anything to use.

Your stuck in this place, lying and crawling and struggling to live.

You wish there was a road nearby, so you could step out, and maybe a car would come and fuckin' hit you, and you would fucking die.

The counselors all speak to you kindly.

They tell you're going to make it, you're going to get better, everything is going to go up hill. One of them always tells me that its going to go by in baby steps, but I will heal.

You don't really mind that they lie to you, because you lie too. We fling them back and forth, spinning a clever web of them.

There's nothing too true, and nothing to do.

They're all pretty little liars, and you are too. A few, well chosen words and you can run the hell out of there, before they notice anything wrong with you.

They all think you're getting better.

You can't help but be proud of your ability to trick them.

* * *

><p>You see people everyday.<p>

Some like you, and others not.

Unless you find someone who is like you in every way, you wear a mask.

Head tilted slightly, a ghost of a smile, standing up straight and not looking at your feet, and focusing completely on pushing emotions of happiness and joy into your eyes. Attempting to look normal.

It works.

But that isn't a surprise.

When you spend a good part of your life with normal people around you, it isn't hard to act like them.

You don't expect to see anyone who lives the way you do, so naturally you are surprised when you find yourself sitting beside a guy in group therapy whose eyes look like your own.

You carefully examine him, taking in the orange hair that- topped with his completely black clothing, studded belt and a ring on a raw chewed lip- made him look like a badly done example of Halloween.

You wonder if he's traveling the same path you are.

And then you turn away.

You tap your fingers on your wrist, wishing for a moment that you had claw like fingernails that would pierce the skin, because you _long _to see the blood.

The shrink begins to talk and you close your eyes, finding the black of your eyelids to be a far nicer sight.

* * *

><p>You take a deep breathe, pleased that your heart is beating, but disappointed that your still alive.<p>

You want to run and hide and carve yourself away until there's nothing left.

This place is too safe, too many dulled edges and softened walls.

You know, because you tested them. You fingered the edge and corners of every surface, because if you hit something hard enough then you can break the skin.

You felt every wall, and found them all to be padded.

You had to give them credit for that. At least they concluded that some people might attempt to beat themselves to death by crushing their heads against the wall 'til blood runs down their faces.

You sure as hell had been thinking of it.

So, it was a good thing that shrinks only thought they could read minds.

Because, if they read yours, you wouldn't stand a chance of ever leaving.

They would see all those dangerous thoughts and would lock you away.

You didn't want that.

You can't die in a padded cell.

* * *

><p>It isn't home, it isn't anything, and it never will be.<p>

You want to leave.

You don't give a shit about healing, because it was all your fault anyways.

You fucked up your life, you messed around, dug yourself the hole and this is the price you pay.

Everyone has to pay their debt to death. You pay yours in a pint of blood a day, so you can move on and go to hell already.

So your best friend is none other then a hunk of metal, small, sharp and a little bitchy? Who care? You don't need friends, you and your little blade are doing just fine on your own.

You keep paying, so you can writhe in flames and blood.

And once you're there, you laugh and scorn at those you left behind.

You can be the one behind the curtain, pulling the trigger for all those left behind.

You sit on your bed, and swing your legs. You can hear it, in the distance; the laughing, over and over again. Death is laughing at you. Laughing because you haven't made it there.

Your hands are shaking, trembling.

Your tired of the people who keep shouting at you in whispers, telling you too call yourself 'I', what ever the hell that means. There is no 'I', you don't know what it means, you don't know what it is. What they hell are they talking about when they you that you are 'I'.

Death is with you and it tells you that you are nothing.

It wants you to suffer. You want to suffer.

Eyes are staring at you, always. They're everywhere, your skin flakes and peels and then the eyes push themselves out of your wrist. You stare, horror writhing at your stomach as the eye blinks and looks around.

A strangled choke clogs your throat, and you hear screaming. It's inside your room, everywhere, everywhere, but it's coming from no where.

The eye is blinking, blinking. You curl your fingers, and dig them into your skin, nails burrow through your flesh, stripping back the skin, the muscles, you gouge out the red flesh, gouge and gouge until the red anger is bleeding out of you and staining the white sheets with hatred

You curl on yourself, clutching your head as someone screams inside you.

You fade in black, with sweet, sweet relief.

* * *

><p>There's white everywhere.<p>

It's a familiar color. Too familiar.

You hate it.

And then there's that beeping. It's surrounding you, and you can't get rid of it. You know where it's coming from; the little machine to your right.

You've already strained your arms, trying to reach it and kill the damn thing, but you found you can't move them.

You're restrained just as you feared.

Depression claws and tears at your stomach and anger digs its way up your throat.

You're in a fucking hospital.

You _failed. _

Again.

You look down your arm to see the clean white bandages dotted with red, wrapped with snake-like precision around your arm. Why, why, why? You ask yourself. You should have known you wouldn't succeed. You should have known that digging your fingernails into the blue of your wrists wasn't enough, that it took too long, that you'd be caught before you finished the job.

And yet you did it anyways.

You had wanted to take a little pair of scissors and snip the blue wire that kept up that beeping, so noise of your thumping heart would stop.

You can hear the nurses whispering just behind the door. 'Poor thing.' 'Such a pity.' 'Think it's too late?'

You wish. You fucking _wish _that it was too late.

The rest of them can just take their pity and leave.

You realize you're not the only one in here.

The other one, the orange head, was here as well.

We'd synchronized in our failures.

You think about him, how he was so much like you, and how he's now in a bed nearby as well.

If we both failed, then what are our chances at success?

You silently wish him luck in your head.

You wish that he'll succeed next time, and you wish that you will too.

* * *

><p>It's been awhile.<p>

They're all watching you. Eyes are in everything you see. The shadows crawl and dance and mock you without second thought. Mouths move but no sound comes out.

You're drifting, you're seeing nothing. You are nothing.

Monsters roar and shout in your ears, carrying corpses shredded and torn to pieces. Chains rattle and rust just out of your peripheral visions, and you check behind you to see if you can catch them.

You see scars everywhere you go, some bleeding, some scabbed, some smooth and flat.

You yearn for nightly strolls, in cool airs where no can see you or hear you.

Where you can shout and scream, and tear those scratching bugs out of their nests under the skin of your arms. You've been aching to get rid of them but with the eyes peeling out of the walls and floor you have no chance.

A heart keeps beating in your ears but you don't know where it comes from.

You can't cut it.

You hand is clenched because you want to squeeze the very life out of it but you can't find it.

Words scroll across crackled papers but you read nothing. You don't understand it, the jumble of letters in shiny ink.

Your searching for something, anything

You want out, you want away.

Where is out? Where is away?

You can't see past the tips of your own shoes.

You stumble and your hand reaches out, snatching across a doorknob. You don't know where you are, you can't comprehend the turns to take or where your supposed to be. There's mumblings that sound concerned, but you don't know where it comes from and its so far away.

You're floating a dreary version of ecstasy.

On impulse you turn the knob, and you crawl you way up the stairs, nails cracking and bleeding and knees scraping and gushing. You claw your way up and suddenly your outside.

You stand on wobbling knees and shift your gaze about, looking at everything at once but at nothing for more then a few seconds.

There's a blur of color ahead of you, of orange and black, you stagger forward and clutch the identical white bandages on his wrist.

He turns to stare, his eyes feeding directly into yours and next thing you know your lips have met, pressing together in writhing hunger and need. Your teeth bite down and returning pain sears across your lips, coating them a metallic taste. You throw yourself into it, eager and willing, feeding on each other like cannibals. It's and addiction, a need, you can't get enough of it,

You want more and more and more.

Hands are groping and pinching moving in synch with our lips.

You wrench apart and stare, amber reflecting violet and vice versa.

You know what you want, and you know what he wants.

Your hands link and curl together nails scratching at the others skin.

Without or emotion, we turn to the edge, and then we are falling.

The height is exhilarating, a rush. You fling out your arms and scream in joy, and this time your smile slips over your lips without a thought, without pain and without effort.

You're happy.

The concrete jarred into you and pain lances outward, searing across your limbs your torso, your head.

The last thing you smell is the fall air.

The last thing you hear is shouts, screams and sirens.

The last thing you feel is sweet relief and sweet pain.

The last thing you see is beautiful red blood, and soft orange locks.

God is crying.

Death is laughing.

And you're...

Free.

**A/N: I don't expect many people to actually like this fic, but its been sitting in my computer for a while now and I wanted to get it out. **

**Please review :)**


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